A gobsmackingly awful British film - awful in the way that somehow only British films can be: our TV drama, of whatever quality, is never as creaky, naive, badly written and flatulent as this. Marianne Faithfull gives a somnambulist performance as the ordinary-yet-gutsy provincial British lady whose grandson is supposedly suffering from a potentially fatal disease. The last hope is to get him to Australia for a specialist cure. The NHS won't stump up for the airfare: so how will they raise the cash? Through a series of plot quirks charitably described as "implausible", desperate Marianne finds herself employed in a quaintly imagined sex club in London's red-light district, sitting in a dark booth providing hand-relief to punters who stick their manhoods through a glory-hole. They never see the plain old gran jerking them off, and it turns out her soft, regularly moisturised palms have given her the magic touch. As she poignantly reflects on her grandson's condition, and her own situation, Faithfull says: "He's dying. I'm wanking. It's a mess." It certainly is.